He kicked his car into reverse, raising umbrellas of dust. The bulldozer beat on the Toyota.
A small sign above the door identified the place as the animal shelter.
Inside, it smelled like a hospital — not antiseptic, exactly; medicinal, full of sickness. The odors seared Hugh’s nose. Wet fur, foul breath, and something else. He sniffed. Of course. A trace of gas. Right away, he knew it had been a mistake to come. How could he have thought of bringing the kittens here?
He lied to the woman at the front desk and said he was searching for a lost cat — he had to offer some excuse now that he was here. She said he could check the back cages. Animals were kept for a couple of weeks before “we have to put them to sleep.” She led him to a massive metal door with a square glass pane in its center. When the woman tugged the handle, a gust of heat emerged from the hall. Hugh thanked her, then stepped into the suffocating broil.
Floor-to-ceiling black wire cages lined either side of the room. Runnels gouged the red-painted floor. A clear liquid ran through the grooves, smelling faintly like pesticide.
The barking and wailing deafened him. An emaciated German shepherd rushed its cage, gnashed its teeth at him. He fell against the opposite wall and felt a hot wind at his ankles; two toy poodles snapped at his heels. Frayed red ribbons dangled, dirty, from their necks. A large yellow dog lay in a cage by itself. It lifted its head, a rheumy old man.
By the far wall, cats, crowded in cages. A noisy spin-cycle of motion. Hugh hurried out, dizzy — so many “hoo-raws” in the city, even among the animals! — muttering vague excuses to the woman at the desk.
Outside, the bulldozer pummeled the car.
Rap music rattled Dowling Street’s brightly lit projects. He got lucky with Spider. The wiry old drummer was perched on his stoop sucking wine from a jam jar. Hugh killed his engine. “Join you?” he called from the curb. All evening, he’d driven around, feeling helpless: unable to connect with his girls, to reach most of his students (the tests were worse than he’d thought), to help the kittens or the old woman who sometimes shared their bushes.
“Didn’t ’spect you till tomorrow. What brings you?” Spider said. “Bad news? Usually bad news brings a fella ‘round when no one ’specting him.”
“No, not really. Nothing terrible, at least. I’m just a little … unsettled tonight.”
“Hell, I been unsettled since kickin’ down my poor old mama’s womb.” He handed Hugh the wine bottle. The stuff was murky. “I’ll get you a glass.”
Crickets wheedled in the grass. The smell of gin and barbecued chicken tumbled over Hugh from a dim window above Spider’s porch. Down the block, where the shackled black hands peeled on the rough brick wall, a broken police tape flapped like kite string from a tree.
“Had a drive-by earlier this evening,” Spider explained, back with a glass. Hugh poured himself a finger. “Twelve-year-old boy, nicked in the arm.”
Hugh watched the streets for the Mustang.
“Why someone want to eighty-six a twelve-year-old boy?”
“The other night, some fellows chased me away from the park,” Hugh said. “Seems to be a high degree of territoriality around here.”
“Brothers protecting they turf, you mean? Yeah. Black Magic’s got ’em all stirred up.”
“Who is he?”
“Who is he really, I don’t know. Just some brother with a microphone. But folks see him as a guardian fuckin’ angel. Defendin’ our occupied streets.”
“Occupied by whites?”
“White money, for sure. Shit, Hugh, let’s not do this tonight, awright man? I’m feelin’ good ‘bout the weekend. I’m obliged to you for nudgin’ me back on stage. Let’s leave it at that. Fair ’nuff?”
“Fair enough. You sounded great. I loved the ‘Shoo-fly’ song.”
“Standard blues juke, nothin’ much, C to C sharp.”
“Sort of non-chordal overall, though? With a 2/4 bar?”
“You learnin’! Ride cymbal keepin’ the beat, leavin’ the bass drum free to bust some chops. Let me ast you, man. Somethin’ you tol’ me while ago. Slaves used to live right here? On Dowling Street? Tha’s on the level?”
“Right here.” The wine tasted like lighter fluid.
Spider nodded. “Reason I ast, sometimes I think I can hear ’em. You know? In my head, in the music. Like them old chains just won’t let go. They be talkin’ to me. ‘Spider, man, spin out our hoo-raw. Don’t let it die.’”
“You’re a storyteller,” Hugh said. “You said it yourself, once.”
“Yeah. Tellin’ stories like carryin’ people’s spirits ‘round inside you.”
Someone screamed down the street. Hugh jumped, then realized the noise had been kids playing. He kept an eye on the intersections at either end of the block. “These old spirits, Spider … it’s something I wanted to talk to you about. You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to see where you were born. See the first joints you played.”
“In the Thicket, you mean?”
“Exactly. I’ve been thinking, it’d be great if I could write your personal history — because it parallels the music’s path, from rural to urban, right, from cotton fields to backroom speakeasies — ”
“I don’t think you should go there, man. Not on your own. Back in them woods, it’s still — how you put it? — ’territorial.’”
“Will you take me, then?”
“When you want to go?”
“Anytime. Now. This week.”
“Shoot!”
“I’m talking a day, maybe two …”
“Mm-hmm. Tell me, this unsettlement you feelin’. It have somethin’ to do with Little Miss Queenie you brung to the Juneteenth party?”
“No, well … sure. A little. And with my classes, I guess, my ex, my girls I don’t know, I feel like getting away. Turning my mind to something else.”
“Turn your ass to gettin’ killed, you go clompin’ ‘round certain hollers in that Thicket. Tell you what, I cain’t take you this week. Since Sat’day, we had offers to play ‘most ever’ night. Mr. Gino’s Lounge. The Club Success. Etta’s. C. Davis Bar-B-Q. And the beauty part is, these black joints. The real thing. Ain’t none of this white slummin’ goin on. No offense, Hugh. But you know what I mean.”
Hugh swallowed the last of his wine. “Lord.” Esophagus-burn. “Listen, if I go looking around those woods, and I come back with questions, will you answer them?”
Spider held out his hand. Hugh shook it.
“Meantime, you better get straight wit’ your womens,” Spider said. “And watch your skinny ass.”
“I hear you, man.” The wine had left him gasping. “I sure do hear you.”
On Monday his students were noisy, eager to see their grades, secretly thrilled (like wild ponies) by the threatening weather outside. The classroom was muggy, smelling of chalk and damp cotton clothing. Hugh set the test folder on the seminar table. About a quarter of the class had failed. Basic world history. He passed out the exams and waited quietly while the students read their results. Much shifting, creaking of chairs. The Asians rolled their eyes in pleasure or disappointment; the Latins straightened vainly or sank; the Arabs showed nothing.
Thunder slammed the building’s walls.
With this particular class, he had never used his world map exercise. There hadn’t been time — the summer term was short. Now, with so many of them fretting over their tests, he figured they could use a distraction. “Okay, everybody, tomorrow morning we’ll start drilling again, and I expect you all to be prepared. But for now, I’d like you to get out a blank sheet of paper, and draw me a map of the planet.”